


Oh, Worm?

by seraphinite



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Fluff and Humor, MC is gender neutral, gender neutral reader, its just inspired by a twitter trend i saw lol, mc isn't actually a worm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23879104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphinite/pseuds/seraphinite
Summary: Would your favorite demon brother still love you if you were a worm? You're determined to get an answer.
Comments: 42
Kudos: 271





	1. Lucifer

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome! :D By some miracle the planets and my braincells aligned to banish my writers block, and voila! Here we are. Hope you like it!
> 
> I'm Gnocchighoul on tumblr, if you want to see more / have any requests!

You stretch lazily across satin sheets—staring hard at the hooded figure in the corner of the room. What on earth are you going to name it? It needs to be a good name—something regal, but not obnoxious. Something _saucy_.

It has to be a fitting name for something so… _weird_. Asking Lucifer for suggestions hadn’t done you any good. For some unknown reason, he doesn’t seem as invested in this predicament as you are.

Truth be told, you’re still in a state of disbelief over the whole thing. Who goes through the trouble of installing a giant crouching skeleton in the corner of their room only to leave it nameless?

Lucifer, apparently.

It’s the sad truth—he’s content to leave your poor pal without any identity or individuality. 

Because of this whole ordeal, you have a nagging suspicion that Cerberus did not get his badass name from Lucifer.

Flames flicker steadily in the fireplace, warm light dancing across the floppy sunhat and sunglasses you had placed on the skeleton. At least he was on board with your attempt at dressing the damned thing. When he’d walked in on you masterfully and craftily duct-taping the sunglasses over its eye sockets, he’d just _stared_.

You had frozen in place, hoping that he wouldn’t be able to see you if you stayed still for long enough.

Before the prolonged silence could become agonizing, Lucifer had shaken his head and sighed, “It works, somehow. Why, though?”

That had been a relief—even if it was a _slightly_ lackluster reaction.

Not that you were complaining. You were now 1,000 grimm richer thanks to Lucifer’s controlled response. Mammon had sworn up and down that the eldest brother would ‘ _skin you alive for messing with his sacred space_ ’, and you had replied ‘ _Bet, bitch_ ’.

Mammon had put his money where his mouth was, and long story short—it was all yours now.

(Y _ou have your suspicions. Lucifer likely knew about the bet and wanted Mammon to lose. But that was just your guys’ little unspoken secret._ )

Now if you could just find one of those rainbow lei necklaces to complete the skeleton’s fresh new look… and brighten up the room a little bit. Maybe you can get Lucifer to get it for you, next time he goes up to the human world. You should ask him.

Actually, there’s something else you’ve been meaning to ask him, too. Despite the late hour, he’s still awake next to you—tapping away at his D.D.D. Your own D.D.D has been lighting up for the last thirty minutes, and despite not having checked it, you just _know_ that something is going down in the House Of Lamentation group chat.

That, or the little angel, Luke, is having a breakdown in your DM’s again. Regardless of what it is, you don’t have the energy to deal with it right now.

You roll over, turning your back on the nameless _~~for now~~_ skeleton, and poke Lucifer’s bicep.

“Hey.” 

“Hm?” 

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” 

Lucifer blinks slowly, fingers hovering over the screen of his D.D.D. “…Pardon?” 

You shoot up into a sitting position, only a little bit dizzy from the sudden head-rush, and the thin blanket pools into your lap. Determination is sharp in the set of your shoulders, and you clasp your hands together, resting your chin atop them and embodying the look of a jaded detective interrogating a hooligan.

“A worm, Lucifer. If I was a worm, would you still love me?” 

He stares unblinkingly at you—features painted with a charmed, fondly exasperated look. He tosses the D.D.D onto the mattress, gifting you his full attention.

“…The implications of what you’re asking are—”

“Yes or no, babe, just answer the question.” 

His red-black eyes—vibrant and jarring in the dark—meet yours, sparkling with an answer that you know is going to be more than you bargained for.

“Do you wish to be my pet that badly?” 

“ _Pet_?!” you squawk. Heat raises to the tips of your ears and down the back of your neck. 

His grin is all Cheshire and teeth when he says, “You could have just asked. You wouldn’t have to be a worm. I like you as you are.” 

“Wait— _hold on_ , that’s not what I— _oof_!” A hand reaches up to loosely clamp around your wrist, and with a single tug, you topple back into the bedsheets, defeated—no longer a shining pillar of strength, determination, and bedhead.

A strong arm hooks around your middle, and you grumble when Lucifer tucks you into his side, him snickering at your fluster. You have to cover your warm face with both hands for a full minute, because you’re a little bit in love but you also can’t look at him right now.

It isn’t the worst answer, you suppose. 

_But it still isn’t a yes or no._

“…What if I was a giant with four arms and a—”

“ _Go to sleep.”_


	2. Mammon

**Mammon**

_Oh yeah. It’s all coming together. You’ve got this in the bag._

You take a deep breath—steadying your hands as you pull back the pool stick. Your striped targets are sitting there patiently on the green felt, waiting to take you down the path of victory. If you can sink them both in one shot, you’ll be home free.

“13 side pocket and 15 in the corner.” 

Mammon whistles lowly. “Gettin’ a little greedy, babe. Trust me, I know, I’m an expert.” 

You lean a little bit to the left, lining up the shot with the white cue ball and— _CRACK_.

You snap the stick forward and the ball goes sailing, hurtling towards the striped 13. 

13 sinks into the side pocket, but it’s not over yet. The white ball is still rolling. It knocks straight into the striped 15, and _there it is_. 15 goes into the corner pocket, basically sealing your victory. The only one left for you is the black eight ball, and then Mammon can get down on his knees and kiss the ground you walk on.

“What the fuck?” Mammon stares at you over the rim of his glasses, bewildered. “I thought you didn’t know how to play!” 

With your free hand, you pat his hip. Smiling sweetly, you say, “I just have a great teacher.” 

_And there it is_ —that embarrassed, rosy blush of his that you just wanna _smooch_. Mammon clears his throat, nervously crossing his arms over his chest as you line up your next shot. 

“That’s right, and don’t you forget it.” he says, voice cracking only a little. “You’re just lucky that I like ya.” 

“Oh?” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. “Would you still love me if I was a worm?” 

“I’ve thought about this!”

You pause, mid-shot—narrow your eyes at him. “…What? Are you planning something?”

“If ya cut a worm in half-”

You nearly drop the pool stick. “You want to cut me in half?!” 

His fingertip pushes against your lips, shushing you, and you briefly consider biting it off.

“Ah ah ah- listen! If ya cut a worm in half, then you have two worms! So I would cut ya up into an infinite amount of worms, then marry one of ya and we’d be king and queen of the worms, with guards and a castle and a worm army!” 

You blink slowly, brain cogs whirring away at a mach five as you try to process the jarring realization that your boyfriend is going to accidentally kill you one day.

“Mammon… I don’t… I don’t think it works that way.”

“‘Course it does, sugar!” 

You stare at him—disbelieving, and so, _so_ fond of this idiot. “You would seriously marry me, even if I was a worm? How would that even work?”

“Well, yeah. We’d find a way—haven’t you seen the bee movie?” 

You smack his ass with the pool-stick, eliciting a surprised yelp from him. It’s not even the worst you could do—your boyfriend just admitted that he wants to _cut you in half._

“When we get married, we’re signing prenups. And you are _not_ allowed to turn me into a worm under _any_ circumstances.” 

Mammon stops pathetically rubbing his butt and pouting to stare at you open mouthed. Ten agonizing seconds pass, but he still doesn’t move. Worried that he’s going to start catching flies, you flick his shoulder. 

“Mammon?” And—oh. _Oh fuck_. “Are you _crying_?! I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would actually hurt you—”

You sort of know that it’s coming, but you aren’t entirely able to smother your squeal when Mammon flings his arms around you in a bone crushing, breath stealing hug. 

“Ya wanna get married?! To _me_?! _Really_?!”

“Well, yeah,” you laugh. You reach out, swiping a stray tear off his cheek with the soft pad of your thumb. “Do you not want to?” 

Mammon screams, and you startle. “No!” 

You arch a single brow, and it takes all of the self control you have to not laugh. “You… _don’t_ wanna get married?” 

“No, no, no! That’s not— wait, yes! _No_! No, wait that’s not what I mean! I don’t mean _no_ I mean— _GAH_ —” 

As much as you enjoy watching him squirm, you decide to have mercy and put him out of his misery. You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and that shuts him up instantly. 

_Works like a charm, every time._

“I know what you mean, you goof.”


	3. Levi

Your boyfriend is weird. There’s no sugarcoating it. 

Levi is a fish out of water. He’s weird in the way that french fries and ice cream are—a little bit repulsive to anyone with a sound mind at first, but once you actually try it, you realize that yeah, okay, this isn’t so bad. Maybe it’s even a little good.

He’s weird and you love him because of it.

But there’s one thing—one single ceramic _thing_ that you haven’t been able to wrap your pretty little mind around.

He sleeps in a bathtub. _He sleeps in a bathtub._

Yeah, you get it, he’s _Leviathan_. Fishy water monster of doom, or something. Grand Admiral of Hell’s Navy. Harbinger of tsunamis, hurricanes, watery-terror, and anime.

But a _bathtub_???

He had gotten weirdly defensive when you’d asked him about it. 

_“It’s—it’s comfortable! Don’t judge me, you sleep on a mattress like a normie!”_

He had a point. Maybe it was a tad unfair of you to judge him for sleeping in a bathtub, when you’ve never had the experience yourself.

Which brings us your current situation. 

Slouched down in his bathtub— _bed_ tub? _Bathbed_? _~~And beyond~~_?—watching him play video games from a comfortable distance. 

And you know what? It’s not that bad! Sure, it’s like sleeping on the hardest hammock in the Devildom, and yeah, your spine is going to be aching and full of kinks in a few hours, but all in all? Not a horrible experience. You’re actually kind of comfortable, somehow.

Cozy? Yes. Bored? _Incredibly._

Your gaze drifts lazily over to Henry the goldfish’s enormous tank. Your fishy step-son is swimming brainlessly in happy little circles, despite the massive amount of space he has. Seriously, the tank takes up the whole wall and is the size of a small room. Why does he only swim in one place? It’s madness.

Levi suddenly cries out in frustration, his head dropping onto the desk with a _THUMP_. Your eyes flicker over to him, and you snort. He’s been at that desk for hours now— _wait._

Now that you think about it, you’re not sure that you’ve ever seen him sit anywhere else in his room. You’re pretty sure he sleeps in that damn chair, despite how viciously he denies it.. 

You look back at Henry.

Then back to Levi. 

_Oh._

Well. Like father like son, you suppose.

_Fuck, you’re bored._

“Levi?” 

He startles, computer mouse jerking against the desk. “Y-yeah?” 

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” 

That gets him to swivel around, eyebrows squished together confusedly. The sight he’s met with doesn’t clarify anything—why are you in his bathtub? Don’t you prefer the super-big super-soft beanbag? And why are you slouched so that he can only see above your eyes over the rim? Are you pretending to be an alligator or something? 

“A… worm?” 

You nod. “Yes.” 

“Like an itty bitty worm? Or a worm the size of you?”

“A worm sized worm.” 

Levi leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his tummy, and pensively stares up at the slow-moving waves in the ceiling.

“Hmm… It’d be hard to date a worm ‘cause there wouldn’t be any cuddles or hugs or kisses—” his eyes suddenly light up with an excitement that, quite frankly, strikes fear into your heart. _Where is he going with this?_ “But you could ride on my shoulder like a Pokemon! I’d give you the best mulch, and buy you a classy glass terrarium with dirt, and maybe a rock… Do worms like rocks? OH! I could sing Sucre Frenzy’s greatest hits to you! And if you ask me what I think about birds—”

…You didn’t expect him to put so much thought into his answer.

You grab onto the nearest pillow, hug it to your chest and settle in, warmth curling in your stomach. That look in his eyes is familiar— he’s not anywhere close to being done rambling, and you’re happily in it for the long haul.


	4. Satan

You’re supposed to be reading.

‘ _Supposed to_ ’ being the key words. But you _can’t_. Not when there’s something far more interesting to look at.

You’ve been living in the House of Lamentation for some time now. You really shouldn’t still be entranced by this sort of thing. But who _wouldn’t_ be? These demons have a life-sized dragon statue looming menacingly over the fireplace in the common room, and they just act like it’s totally ordinary! Which, you suppose it kind of is for them. _But still._ It’s criminal.

You shift over an inch so that you can study it in better lighting. You’re laying flat on your back on the leather couch—paperback lying open and forgotten on your tummy, your legs hanging over Satan’s lap. He’s sitting with a stillness that only an immortal could have, nose buried deep in a book.

He’s reading a mystery novel of some sort—you don’t know what it’s about, but it had sounded interesting when he’d described it to you. _So interesting_.

Okay, truthfully, no it hadn’t. But Satan was just so cute when he got all passionate about his books, and you didn’t have the heart to tell him that you had no idea what he was rambling on about. You’re supportive, dammit, even if you’re still not sure what exactly you had supported. It was probably fine.

All that said—there was something that had managed to capture your attention.

_The dragon._

Solid silver, extremely detailed, and about the size of a small sedan. You have yet to see a real dragon in person, but in your unprofessional opinion, this one looks very lifelike.

You have questions. Such as—who put it there? _Why_ did they put it there? More importantly: is it hiding secrets? 

It has to be there for a reason. You’re convinced that the House of Lamentation has a bunch of hidden passageways and rooms. The demon brothers have denied it, of course, but you know better. You’re determined to find them all. It’s only a matter of time before you do.

Or—maybe, _just maybe_ —the dragon comes to life at night! You just need to find the solid gold ancient Egyptian tablet that gives it life and—wait, no. That can’t be right. The Devildom never had a version of Ancient Egypt… Probably. Also, that’s the plot of a kid’s movie. It would be too obvious.

You should just ask Satan about it. He’s got an incredibly vast wealth of knowledge up in that blonde noggin—he’ll probably have an answer.

“Can I ask you something, Satan?” 

He doesn’t look up from the book. “Of course.” 

_But wait._

What if _he’s_ the one working behind the scenes to keep you out of the secret passageway system? You can’t just let him know that you’re _this_ close to cracking the case! What kind of detective would that make you?! A piss poor one, that’s what.

Satan arches a brow pointedly, and your brain flat-lines with panic. You have to ask him something _now_ , or he’s going to catch on to your scheming—

You blurt out, “Would you still date me if I was a worm?” 

_… You did not just say that._

“What?”

_Fuck, you did._

You have to run with it. You don’t have a choice. There’s no time for you to escape by smoothly acquiring a fake body and burning down the house. You’ve made your (dirt) bed, now you have to lie in it.

“You heard me. Would you still date me if I was a worm?” 

Satan must be at a good place to pause, because he decides to humor you. He sets down the book on the coffee table and rests his arms on your legs.

“Am I also a worm in this scenario? Or is it like Romeo and Juliet and I’m actually a bird and our love is forbidden? Or is it like lady and the tramp where you are both the lady and the iconic spaghetti noodle?”

 _Why_ is he thinking so hard about this?

Satan takes your .03 second long silence into consideration, then says, “I don’t know, love, there are just too many factors to consider and not enough information. I’m sorry if that breaks your hearts.” 

You shoot him a withering look. “You broke all five of them. Apology not accepted.” 

Why does he even know about worm anatomy? Why do _you_ know about it?

Satan’s eyes widen with alarm. He does a quick scan over you, as if he’s checking to make sure that you haven’t suddenly transformed into a slimy little annelid. “Why do you ask? You haven’t gotten cursed or something, have you? Please tell me you haven’t.” 

“No!” 

“Oh. That’s good.” relieved, he sags back into the couch. “I don’t think I have enough room for another enclosure anyways. My Halloween crab probably wouldn’t like having another animal around either.” 

“An enclosure?” Your eyes light up like firebugs. “So you would still love me! But would you date me?” 

Satan wrinkles his nose. “Absolutely not.” 

You clutch at your heart (just the one) like you’ve been shot. “Why not?” 

“Worms don’t do it for me.”


	5. Asmo

The shopping district is cloaked in a shimmering haze; kissed by neon lights that reflect off the cobblestone streets. You love this part of the Devildom, almost as much as Asmo does. Plant trellises loom above you, parallel to the street and peppered with string lights. A brief respite from the Devildom’s eternal night sky.

In some ways, it reminds you of home. The buildings and shop fronts are fashioned similarly to the modern style of the human realm—stirring up feelings of familiarity in you that the extravagantly stuffy House of Lamentation can not. 

The Devildom is your home now. You love it here—there’s no question about that.

But, sometimes, in your weaker moments… you miss your roots. 

You miss the sunshine.

Asmo has picked up on this. You know that he has, despite the aloof front that he likes to put up. You don’t like to talk about it though, and he never pushes you to—just does what he can to make your world more vibrant and warm.

Though sometimes his methods are a bit… _interesting._

For example—he recently bought you a sunlamp. 

(You question if it was fully for _you_ though—with the amount of time he spends using the damn thing, you’re beginning to think that you’re actually dating an overgrown, narcissistic lizard.)

Today had just been one of _those_ days—where even your beloved sunlamp couldn’t fully resuscitate you. You had woken up feeling all wilty and had just resigned yourself to a mopey movie day in bed.

Your lizard had other plans.

In classic Asmo style, he’d dressed you to the nines and taken you out on the town to cheer you up. You had protested a bit, at first—now though, you were _so_ damn glad that you had trudged along.

When it comes to you, Asmo pulls out all the stops. Today he’d shown you the vastly underrated wonders of retail-therapy, pressed limoncello kisses into your mouth at lunch, then surprised you with the promise of a weekend long spa experience.

Just like that, the ache in your heart was forgotten.

The two of you leisurely walk back to the House of Lamentation, hands interlocked, and armed to the teeth with shopping bags of all shapes, sizes, and colors. You don’t remember half of the things you bought, but, that just means the excitement of the day gets to last a little longer.

You can’t wait to get home and dig into your newfound treasures, but there’s no real rush. 

Despite the absurd amount of bags hooked on his arm, Asmo somehow manages to scroll through his Devilgram feed, and as you two walk, he occasionally tilts the screen of his D.D.D in your direction. Sometimes it’s to show you the beginnings of a new social trend, other times to make fun of a particularly ugly cat, and twice to make fun of Mammon.

 _Which reminds you_ … a few days back, you saw a trend on Devilgram that you’ve been _dying_ to try on him. Figuring that there’s no better time than the present, you say, “Asmo, would you still love me if I was a worm?” 

If you didn’t know better, you would think that you just heard him gag. But there’s no way that’s right—he wouldn’t _dare_ , because he _loves_ you—

“We just ate lunch, dear,” he sniffs politely. “Are you trying to make me throw up? Because that’s not very nice.”

“Wh—oh, c’mon! It would still be me! Just… wormy.” 

“Why a _worm_?” Asmo pouts. “Why not something sexy, like a—”

“Ah ah ah!” your shout silences him. There are some things you simply do _not_ want to know. “Finish that sentence and I’ll have you arrested.” 

“Oh?” Asmo smiles—a line of perfect white teeth—and his eyes glitter with mischief when he says, “I’ll allow it, but only if you’re the one putting me in handcuffs, darling~”

“What if I handcuffed you as a giant worm?”

He gags.


	6. Beel

You empty most of the contents from the fridge onto the countertop, which isn’t saying much, truthfully. For the third time this week, you guys are nearly out of everything thanks to Beel’s insane appetite. 

Speaking of.

“Do you want an omelet?” you ask over your shoulder. Beel freezes in the doorway, looking like an overgrown deer caught in headlights. He’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen—eyes all wide and doe-like, hair sticking up in tufts, still wearing his soft gym clothes.

“Yes,” he says automatically, before his brain can catch up with his mouth.

You smile at him, then turn back to the fridge to pull out spinach, mushroom, bell pepper, and onion. Lots of it.

You’ve only just set down everything in your arms when Beel says, “Wait, no. Well, _yes_ —but that’s not why I’m here. I need to ask you something.”

“What’s on your mind?” 

He makes his way over to you—there’s a little crinkle in his brow that you want to smooth over with your thumb. Whatever he wants to ask you about really has the gears in his brain churning away—you hope that he hasn’t gotten into another argument with Belphie. If that’s the case, you’re going to have to make apology soup, and you simply don’t have the ingredients on hand for the Quetzalcoatl brain soup that Belphie loves.

You’re already strategizing how to get your butts to the store ASAP. Your wallet should be on the desk in your room still, and it’ll only take you a minute to get it, so you should have more than enough time to—

“Can you step on me?” 

Your brain blue-screens.

“Like—like on your foot? I don’t—what are you asking me?” 

He frowns. “No. I messed up my back while I was working out, and I can’t get it to pop. Usually I’d ask Belphie, but he’s asleep and I don’t want to wake him up, so… Can you walk on my back?” 

… _Oh._ Context. A lovely thing to have.

You spare a quick glance at the beginnings of your omelet—it’s not going anywhere. Your man needs you to— _to step on his back_ , and you’ve gotta help him, dammit. But the kitchen floor is cold, so…

“Do you wanna go to the common room or—”

“Here’s fine!” Beel breaks out into a grin, and he looks so happy and grateful that you can’t help but feel so fucking _fond_ of this big lug. 

Next thing you know, Beel is laying tummy down on the stone floor, arms folded under his head and— _oh damn, that is one_ nice _tushy._

You nudge his hip with your fuzzy socked foot—and it’s like nudging a warm, dense brick. 

“So, what—you want me to just… stand on your spine?”

“Yeah. Like a tightrope?” 

You fold your arms behind your back and roll onto the balls of your feet, nervous suddenly. What if you step on the wrong spot and he gets a pinched nerve? What if he has a serious injury and you stomping all over him makes it worse? What if he ends up paralyzed?

It’s not impossible, you reckon—you read a news article once about a guy who had a broken neck for forty years and had no idea until one fateful day when he turned his head just slightly wrong. 

Is this safe? You really don’t know. Maybe you should watch a tutorial on DevilTube first? 

“Okay, I know I said yes, but are you sure? What if I hurt you?” 

Your voice is high, somewhat uncertain, and Beel smiles into his sweater sleeves. “You won’t.” 

You hesitate still, but only for another second or two. Then, you decide, _fuck it_ , say, “‘Kay, I’m gonna stand on ya now.” and step onto his back.

_**CRACK.** _

You freeze.

Oh. Oh god— _oh fuck_ —you KILLED him.

He’s dead. Gone. You, puny little human that you are, snapped his spine in half, _a la mortal kombat_. Beel perished and you’re standing on his fucking _corpse_ —

“Hey, you’re really good at this—”

You freeze, heart slamming painfully into the back of your chest, because _oh god oh fuck the love of your life is dead and now you’re stuck loveless in a world with witches, angels, demons and now ZOMBIES—_

“Honey, I’m fine. I’m a demon, remember? You probably couldn’t hurt me if you tried.” 

Oh. _Riiiight_. Demons. Beel’s a demon. A demon who picks up on your anxieties like they’re a second language and smooths them over no problemo. 

“Are you okay?”

“Never better!” You step on the spot right between his shoulder blades, and another impressive _crack_ sounds through the air—this one a tad less alarming than the last. Beel sighs and practically melts into the floor. Man, you _are_ good at this. Who needs DevilTube tutorials? Certainly not you.

“I love you.” Beel mumbles. You feel the words moving through his chest more than you hear them, and now you’re the one feeling all toffee soft and melty. 

You want to say something sweet like, “ _aw, I love you too_!” or, “ _why are you the sweetest boy in all of the realms_?” but Beel isn’t the only one who has a mouth that works faster than the brain.

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” You step onto the center of his back this time and grind your heel into his spine when you don’t hear a pop.

He’s quiet— _too quiet_ — and for a moment, you wonder if you actually killed him this time.

“Bee?”

“I’d put you in a little jar of dirt. Keep you misted.” 

And _man oh man_ , if that isn’t one of the sweetest (and weirdest) things you’ve ever heard.


	7. Belphie

_Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea_ , your mind chants as you waltz up the staircase. Yes, what you’re doing is a bad idea. Are you gonna do it anyways? Absolutely. Do you have any sense of self-preservation? Apparently not. 

You hit the landing and it’s full speed ahead to the attic room. Buttery golden light spills out into the comfortably sized hallway, and you head straight in before your survival instincts can kick in and save your life.

You want attention, dammit, and you’re going to get it.

 _And there he is_. Belphie. Sprawled out on the large, circular mattress in all of his sleepy, drooling glory. 

_Ugh_. You _love_ him.

Quiet as a mouse, you tip-toe over to the bed and shove aside a ridiculous amount of pillows, clearing up a space just large enough for you to crawl onto.

You poke gently at Belphie’s cheek. It takes a few minutes, 76 pokes, and a bottomless well of patience, but finally, one amethyst eye cracks open to glare heatedly at you.

“ _What?_ ”

“I need to ask you something. It’s important.” 

He knuckles gently at his eyes, looking only a little peeved off at you for waking him up from his sixth nap of the day. “What is it?”

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” 

_“I would feed you to Levi’s goldfish.”_

“Don’t be mean!” 

“You woke me up for that?!” 

Belphie moves far too quickly for someone who’s only just risen from the depths of slumber—snagging his arms around your waist, spinning you around and all but body slamming you into the bed like a luchador. With deceivingly strong arms and legs, he latches on to you like a.. Well, actually, like a sloth. A freakishly strong, impossibly cute sloth.

You shift and squirm around, trying your hardest to escape, but it’s too late. You feel the muscles in his arms and chest clench from the effort of keeping you in place, and finally, with an exasperated sigh, you give in to his whims. 

One of the little D’s skitters past the attic room, and you stare mournfully in its wake. Belphie is a lot of things—one of them being a hard-headed snuggle bug. By now you should know that there’s no escaping the demon of cuddles. You’re stuck until dinner time or until one of his brothers comes to your aid. 

_Oh noooo_ … you had been _so_ looking forward to studying… _Ha!_

Belphie lets go of you with one arm, clumsily patting around the mattress behind him in search of something. After a few seconds, he mutters, “ _A-ha_!” and pulls a blanket over you both. It’s the soft purple one that he knows you love, and yeah, okay, maybe it wins you over. Just a little bit.

In return, you take one of his hands into your own and shove it up against your chest, right over the steady beating of your heart. Sometimes he needs the reminder.

Belphie smiles into your hair. “I can’t believe you woke me up to ask that. What’s wrong with you?” 

“What’s wrong with _me_? What’s wrong with _you_?! I can’t believe you’d feed me to Henry!” 


End file.
